The Haunting of Los Angeles
by IcyWaters
Summary: Capitán Monastario concocts a daring new plan to save face after Don Nacho Torres flees the Mission San Gabriel. Takes place between the episodes "The Ghost of the Mission" and "Zorro's Romance." Based on the Walt Disney series.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters appearing in the Walt Disney Zorro television series. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made. I don't own 'em, I'm just a fan wanting to keep the spirit of a favorite show alive.

Author's Note: This story was inspired by Ida Mirei's delightful _The Joker_. It made me want to write for Capitán Monastario… and what better time of year to play with my favorite evil commandante than Halloween? As always, a big thank you to Ida. :-)

* * *

><p><span><strong>The Haunting of Los Angeles<strong>

**Chapter One  
><strong>**"The Lingering Effects of the Mad Monk"**

Merry visions of Zorro hanging from a noose danced in Capitán Enrique Sanchez Monastario's head; complete with black ravens picking at the lifeless flesh of his enemy. Yes, he will definitely hang the masker. Death by firing squad was too quick—he wanted to savor the moment. A small, satisfied grin formed on his lips despite the fiasco at hand.

Don Ignacio Torres was free, having fled the Mission San Gabriel, and was scrambling north to Monterey at this very minute to plead his case directly with the governor. The disgraced haciendado would undoubtedly start spewing lies about the commandante of Los Angeles in a pathetic attempt to save his own neck.

It was all Zorro's fault.

Not only did that damn bandit release Torres from jail and lead him to the mission where he claimed sanctuary, he then had the audacity to interfere yet again. The masked nuisance assisted the fugitive in escaping the army's blockade aimed at forcing the traitor from the confines of the church so he could be properly rearrested.

It was nothing short of a fiasco.

Sitting in his favorite chair, Monastario stared at the blank sheet of parchment on the desk, trying desperately to figure a way out of this mess. Licenciado Pina was of no help. The timid lawyer just cowered in corners, trying his best to avoid the commandante's foul mood.

If Torres made it to Monterey, Monastario was going to have to reverse course and dismiss the charges against the troublemaker. The capitán couldn't risk executing him with the increased scrutiny the governor's involvement would surely bring. Too many prying eyes, too many questions…

But Monastario had never backed down from a fight. And he sure as hell wasn't going to start now and let the dons think they won a round; he wasn't going to allow them to believe the commandante was weak, that he could be defeated. The capitán needed to crush their hopes. Ignacio Torres was the key.

Leaning forward, he rested an elbow on the smooth writing surface and raised a hand to massage his temple. A knock reverberated on the office's heavy door. Not lifting his eyes from the paperwork, Monastario announced, "Enter."

Lumbering footsteps traced a line from the entrance to a spot in front of the mahogany desk. Drawing to a stop, a pair of boots stomped on the wood floor. Monastario didn't have to look up to know the plump soldier was also saluting.

"Sergeant Garcia reporting as ordered."

Monastario settled back and twirled a quill in his hand. "Is there any sign of Torres?"

"No, Commandante."

"How can that be, Sergeant?" Monastario inquired. "Does your incompetence know no limits? How is it you cannot find one man when you know exactly where he is headed?"

"Well, I, uh," Garcia stammered. "There is a lot of land to cover…"

"Oh, I did not ask for excuses, baboso," Monastario barked. "This is just as much your fault as it is Zorro's." Tossing the quill aside, he stood up and rounded the desk to stand next to the sergeant. He held his hand up and curled it into a fist. "You let Torres slip right through your fingers."

"It was not my fault, Commandante," Garcia protested. "It was the Ghost of the Mad Monk."

"How many times must I tell you," Monastario sighed, shaking his head in dismay, "there are no such things as phantoms and ghosts. It was another of Zorro's tricks."

"He had no face," Garcia was quick to point out, the horror evident in his voice.

"I am surrounded by ineptitude," Monastario muttered. Picking up the sheathed sword hanging near the door, he drew the blade and relished the weight in his hand. Executing a perfect lunge at an imaginary opponent, he envisioned the pure elation of running the thin length of steel into the flesh of the masked man.

The capitán turned, wielding the sword through empty air, and Garcia took a cautious step to the rear. He smirked at the open fear in his subordinate. "I know Torres is still somewhere in the district. He was hungry and thirsty last night…"

"That is because you denied him food and water."

One cold stare from Monastario and the sergeant clamped his lips shut. "Padre Felipe fed him before he departed. I am certain of it. The foolish act of compassion should have worked in our favor, permitting my men enough time to take up position along the routes leading north. Torres knows the army is hunting him; therefore, he cannot risk being seen on the main roads. It is a minimum ten day ride to Monterey; he has no money, no change of clothes…"

"If Padre Felipe offered Don Nacho a meal, he probably gave him some money, too," Garcia surmised. "Maybe even a horse and some clothes."

"Excelente, Sergeant." Mischievous sparks glinted in the capitán's blue eyes as an idea took shape. He held the blade to the window and let the last vestiges of sunlight shimmer off the finely crafted rapier. "And people call you stupid."

"You do, Commandante."

"Never mind that," Monastario said dismissingly. "You have new orders, Sergeant. Ride to the Mission San Gabriel and place Padre Felipe under arrest." He slid the sword into its sheath and returned to his chair, the corners of his lips twitching in devilish delight. It was a brilliant plan!

"Sí, Commandante," Sergeant Garcia saluted, turned to the door and paused. His eyes grew as wide as saucers. "Arrest Padre Felipe?" he repeated incredulously.

"You have your orders, Sergeant."

"But, Commandante," Garcia pleaded, "How am I to arrest the padre when even you could not take Don Nacho into custody inside the church? What if he claims sanctuary?"

"You idiot," Monastario barked, "Do not barge in and arrest Padre Felipe _in_ the church. Wait until he steps outside; then arrest him."

Garcia nodded his understanding. Craning his neck to peer out the window and to the sky, he chewed his lower lip in uncertainty. Clearing his throat, he asked, "I am to do this first thing in the morning?"

"No," the capitán answered sternly, "the orders are to be carried out immediately."

"But it is getting dark…" Garcia gulped, "and the night will be moonless…"

"So?"

"Well… um… dark, moonless nights are when the Ghost of the Mad Monk appears."

"For the last time, there is no ghost!" Monastario bellowed, his cheeks growing red with fury. "Now go!"

* * *

><p>As morning wore on, the mob of angry citizens situated outside the cuartel's gates grew in size. Their furious shouts filled the plaza and drifted into the commandante's office. Monastario slowly finished the last morsel of his rather large breakfast, placed his napkin on the empty plate and snickered. He called for the private stationed outside his quarters to remove the dishes.<p>

Finishing up a few last bits of paperwork, he decided it was time to have a word with the disorderly group. He latched his favorite rapier to his belt and pulled a black hat on his head to shade his eyes from the sun. A confident smile etched on his face, he strode from the office to the gate.

"This is unconscionable," Don Alejandro de la Vega seethed, taking the position of unofficial leader of the mob. The lancers held them off with rifles. "You have crossed the line this time, Monastario."

"It will be you, Don Alejandro, who is crossing the line if you do not call off this demonstration."

"We demand the release of Padre Felipe," Alejandro stated harshly. "You had no grounds to arrest him."

"You are not in a position to demand anything," Monastario gloated, enjoying the upper hand he held over the haciendado. "As for the padre, he is charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive. He gave food and water, and possibly money, to Don Nacho Torres, a man guilty of treason against the crown."

"Guilty?" the silver-haired don repeated. "There was no trial. This is a mockery."

"Watch your words, Señor de la Vega, or you will join the padre behind bars." The capitán relished the thought of locking de la Vega in jail; the wolf belonged in a cage. Once he dispatched with Torres, Monastario would deal with this adversary, perhaps even hanging him next to Zorro on the gallows. His two greatest foes gone in one fell swoop.

Surveying the crowd, Monastario noticed the younger de la Vega standing a few yards away. Diego, dressed as always in a fancy ensemble with elaborate embroidery, glanced around the cuartel uncomfortably, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Disagreements were not his strong suit. No doubt he was dragged to this altercation unwillingly by his father. Monastario inwardly laughed. It served the pesky ranchero right to have such a lazy popinjay for an offspring.

Alejandro glared at the commandante. "What do you plan to do with the padre?"

"His status in the church affords him no special treatment," Monastario answered. "Helping a traitor is a treasonous crime in and of itself. The penalty for treason is death."

Silence descended on the crowd. Alejandro looked aghast at the commandante, pure shock smothering his all too often outspoken voice. For the first time, Monastario realized, the old man was speechless. It was a joy to behold!

Elated with his authority, the capitán noticed Licenciado Pina approaching the gate. The timid man, clad in a somber suit reminiscent of an undertaker's, didn't push his way through the crowd. Instead, he skirted around the outer edge and waited for a soldier to let him enter. That soldier glanced at the commandante and Monastario nodded his approval. Pina then slipped into the safety of the cuartel and out of the crowd's eyeshot.

When the don finally recovered, he uttered, "You cannot be serious."

"I have never been more serious, Don Alejandro," he replied with a malicious grin. "The situation is out of my hands. But there is a small loophole in the law. If Don Ignacio Torres turns himself in during the next forty-eight hours, all charges against Padre Felipe will be dropped."

"This is blackmail!" Alejandro cried.

"Call it whatever you wish, but those are the terms for the padre's release. I am sure one of you knows where Torres is and will relay my message," Monastario added smugly and began walking away. He suddenly stopped and turned to the crowd. "I would advise all of you to go home. No visitors are allowed and my lancers have orders to shoot anyone they deem a threat to the security of the cuartel. And some of them have itchy trigger fingers."

The loud protests weakened into hushed whispers as he walked the rest of the way to his office, Pina on his heels. As the capitán stood outside the door to his office, he noted with satisfaction the crowd was already beginning to disperse.

"Does that order of no visitors apply to me, too?" Pina asked in irritation, closing the door behind him.

"Of course not, Licenciado, you are always welcome here," Monastario grinned, tossing his hat aside, "as long as you convey good news." He perched on the edge of the desk and folded his arms over his chest. "So, what brings you to my humble quarters on this glorious morning?"

"Have you gone mad, Enrique?"

Monastario customarily bristled at the use of his given name, unless it was uttered by a pretty señorita, but it didn't bother him today. He only cringed at the use of that expression; it conjured up too many images of Garcia and his stupid ghost. "Do not use that word in my presence," he ordered.

"You cannot lock a padre in the jail!"

"But I already have." Monastario grinned cheerfully.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it." Pina ran both hands through his hair while pacing the room. "It's not that you cannot physically lock him up, it's that you shouldn't–"

"And why not?" Monastario interrupted him. "Does he have special privileges? Is there an unwritten law that states men of the cloth are not bound by the edicts of our king?"

"No, but you are inciting a riot. These people can only be pushed so far." Pina slowed his pacing. "If Don Nacho doesn't show, will you go through with it? Will you hang Padre Felipe?"

"I will not have to. Torres will come crawling to me."

Pina's eyebrow quirked up and he stepped closer. "How can you be so certain?"

"Torres was prepared to forfeit sanctuary the moment I started whipping the natives," Monastario replied. "It was only because of the padre and de la Vega that he held on for so long. Ignacio Torres does not have the spine to cope with the burden of his confessor hanging in his place. He will be here."

"What if Don Nacho does not hear of this?"

"One of those troublemakers will tell him," Monastario responded, "but just in case Torres has fled to the north, I have sent a lancer to spread the news in San Fernando and San Buenaventura. This is why I am giving him until tomorrow evening to turn himself in."

"Spreading the news?" Pina slumped into a nearby chair. "What if the governor hears of this?"

"It was merely a misunderstanding," Monastario smiled. "By the time word reaches Monterey, Torres will be dead courtesy of a bullet in the back as he fled once more like the coward he is, the padre will be free and no one will be able to do anything about it."

"This is a dangerous game," Pina sighed. "Have you taken into account Zorro?"

"Ah, the fox," Monastario muttered languorously, "I almost had him the other night; trapped in the bell tower and scampering away after he failed. He has only pestered me this long because he is lucky. Luck runs out. My lancers are stationed on the rooftops ready for him to emerge from the shadows."

"I just hope you know what you are doing for both of our sakes."

Monastario laughed, the hearty sound echoing off the walls. "You are too tense, Licenciado." He straightened and motioned for Pina to stand. "Why don't you head over to the tavern and order a bottle of their best wine. Put it on my account."

Pina looked at the commandante warily as he was ushered from the office, yet he went along with the suggestion without opposition. Observing the lawyer's departure, the smile faded from the capitán's lips when his eyes fell on Diego de la Vega standing near the jail, talking with Padre Felipe, the sergeant simply standing nearby chatting with another lancer.

"Sergeant Garcia!" he shouted, marching over to the cells. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Well, um," Garcia stuttered, drawing to attention.

"I specifically ordered the prisoner to have no visitors!"

"Do not yell at the sergeant, Capitán," de la Vega admonished. "He was following your directives to the letter. I am only a visitor," he said with the innocence of an angel, "not a visitors."

Monastario clenched his fists and glared at the fancy peacock.

The don pleasantly smiled and continued explaining, not the slightest bit deterred by the commandante's stern disposition. "You told the sergeant there are to be no visitors, as in plural; I am a single visitor."

"You are trying my patience, de la Vega," the capitán seethed. "Get out before I have you forcibly removed." He resolved to hang this dandy alongside Zorro and Alejandro.

"There is no need to get moody about it," Diego frowned, raising his chin, "I will leave." He bid adiós to the padre and sulked across the courtyard.

The idiot was pouting! If Monastario wasn't so furious, he would have found it amusing. He spun on his heels and got directly into Garcia's face. "From this second on, the prisoner is to have no visitor or visitors. If I see even one person here, you will be tasked with cleaning the stables for the next year. Understand?"

Garcia swallowed hard and saluted. "Sí, mi Capitán."

"I am surrounded by incompetence," Monastario muttered as he returned to the refuge of his office.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Haunting of Los Angeles**

**Chapter Two  
><strong>**"Saving Don Nacho… Again"**

Diego de la Vega shrugged off his jacket and unfastened the top button of his shirt as he entered his bedroom. Bernardo, standing with his back to the door, nonchalantly turned around as if not hearing a sound and smiled. "You play your part well, my friend." The don patted him on the upper arm.

The mute nodded in appreciation and pointed to the clock.

"Yes, it is getting late." Tossing the jacket on the bed, Diego strolled over to the sitting area near the fireplace and dropped heavily into one of the chairs. "When my father insisted I attend the meeting with his friends, I had no idea it would last until supper." He picked up a knight from the chessboard arranged on the table between the seats. Running a finger along the intricately carved wood piece, he sighed. "The situation is dire, Bernardo."

The mute slid into the chair opposite the younger man.

"They are angry," Diego continued, "No, it is more than anger. They are livid a gentle soul is being treated in such a callous manner, frustrated over not knowing what to do about it and despondent that things will never change. Emotions are running high. It's only a matter of time before they boil over." He set the knight down. "I am afraid of what will happen when that day comes."

Bernardo's eyes widened, burning bright with concern.

"Capitán Monastario is giving Don Nacho until tomorrow night to turn himself in. If he doesn't, Padre Felipe will hang at dawn. I have no doubts that Monastario will go through with it, too. There is not enough time to alert the governor. At my urging, the dons agreed to send a courier to the presidio in Santa Barbara with a message asking for help."

The mute crinkled his brow and pointed toward the clock again.

"It is a long shot," Diego admitted, "but it was all I could do to keep them from storming the cuartel. If Monastario keeps up these abuses that is exactly what will happen." He took a deep breath to calm his growing fears. "If the haciendados band together and attack the army, it will be all out war and I won't be able to protect my father."

Bernardo traced the letter 'Z' in the air with his finger, followed by a cross.

"Sí, Zorro will ride tonight," Diego grinned, "but he will not rescue the padre."

The mute tilted his head, signaling his confusion.

"Monastario has snipers positioned all along the garrison's roof. The fox would not stand a chance against them. Regrettably, the padre may have to spend the next two nights in jail."

At Bernardo's questioning glance, he explained further.

"Our pompous capitán will carry out the hanging with his usual arrogance—and that will create an opening for the fox. Monastario will yearn to demonstrate his power; the gates will be open for his grand display. Combined with the angry crowd, it will provide the perfect distraction for a rescue."

Pursing his lips together, Bernardo pointed to Diego, to the cave and then threw his hands up in defeat.

"You want to know why Zorro is riding tonight," Diego articulated. "That's simple. He's going to make sure Don Nacho doesn't do something foolish, like turn himself over to the commandante."

The mute sat up straight in the chair. He grasped a pair of imaginary reins and made a rolling motion with his hands, denoting a long trip over hills and mountains.

"No, Don Nacho is likely still in the area. That is one aspect Monastario and I agree on. He needs a good horse, money and supplies before he can set off for Monterey. We should have thought of that last night and had them prepared in advance. It was a mistake on my part. I didn't expect Monastario to regroup the lancers and setup road blocks so quickly."

The don leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. The close encounter at the mission's bell tower gnawed at him. Bernardo apparently read his friend's mind. He drew his hand diagonally across his chest signifying a uniform, rubbed his chin indicating a goatee and reached out to grasp Diego's wrist.

"Yes, Monastario did nearly catch me the other night. The thought of a noose around my neck is rather disconcerting." He instinctively reached up to rub his throat. "I have made too many mistakes lately. We cannot afford to make anymore. That is why Zorro is going to have some help tonight."

Bernardo threw his shoulders back, raised his head and pointed at his own chest.

"Don't look so surprised," Diego playfully teased. "Who else helps the fox? Now, here's the plan."

* * *

><p>Tornado snickered as he and his masked rider completed yet another perimeter check of the pueblo, making sure to stay a safe distance from the lancers stationed at the cuartel. Only a single patrol, consisting of no more than three soldiers, was out on assignment. Capitán Monastario wanted to protect his prisoner—his bait—at all costs.<p>

The fox's senses were on full alert; his eyes scanned murky shadows for any indication of movement while his ears listened for soft footsteps crunching on the dirt amid chirping crickets. So far, the night remained peaceful. He just hoped it wasn't the lull before the storm.

Zorro was certain that Don Nacho would surrender to the capitán under the cover of darkness. The beleaguered haciendado's resolve wavered with each of Monastario's new schemes; he wouldn't allow his friends to talk him out of this. The plan was to intercept Nacho before he got to the plaza and get him to safety. Bernardo lingered nearby in case things did not go according to plan.

Staying in the silhouettes of the adobe buildings, Zorro guided Tornado into the plaza. The black stallion suddenly slowed. "What is it, boy?" he whispered, trusting the animal's instincts. He surveyed the scene, letting his eyes roll over the structures. That's when he noticed the figure emerging on the opposite side—a figure whose stature bared a striking resemblance to that of Don Nacho Torres. The fox cursed under his breath. Nacho would reach the cuartel before they had a chance to snatch him.

"Capitán, Capitán!" a cry sounded from the cuartel. "It's him!" The gate flew open and the commandante strode out to meet his prey, the malicious grin visible even from afar.

Taking one final look at the rooftop top where snipers lay in wait, Zorro breathed deeply, dug his heels into Tornado's sides and the stallion roared forward. Thundering through the plaza, they slowed just enough for the fox to grab Nacho and swing him onto the back of the saddle.

"It's Zorro! Shoot, you fools, shoot!" Monastario frantically called out.

Gunshots shattered the night air as they rounded the corner. In the distance, Zorro could hear the commandante shouting orders to mount up. Tornado made a mad dash through the streets until they reached the mouth of an alley he and Bernardo scouted earlier.

Zorro motioned for the don to dismount and observed he was startled, but otherwise unharmed.

"What are you doing, Señor?" Nacho stared up at the masked man. "I was–"

"There is no time for explanations now," Zorro interrupted. "Take cover amongst those crates." Tornado danced anxiously anticipating the chase. "I will return for you after leading the soldiers away."

"But–"

"Please trust me," the fox grinned, "and hurry."

As soon as the haciendado was hidden from sight, Zorro spurred his horse onward and approached the tavern's stable from the rear. Bernardo materialized from an empty stall, hauling a large object behind him. "Quickly, my friend, we've not much time."

* * *

><p>So close… He was so close to Torres and that damn bandit ruined it!<p>

"Lancers, to horse!" Sergeant Garcia bellowed. "Everyone to horse!"

Standing in the middle of the plaza watching his quarry escape and powerless to stop it, Capitán Monastario was knocked from his reverie by the deep baritone timbre rising above the commotion. Steeling his composure, he ran into the cuartel. The soldiers were scrambling off the roof and hastily saddling their mounts.

"No, you idiots!" Monastario shouted, slapping his forehead. "Not all of you!"

"But, Commandante," Garcia protested, "you said to–"

"Do not tell me what I said," Monastario snapped. "This is exactly what Zorro wants, baboso. The cuartel unguarded so he can free the padre." He turned to the stables and pointed to a pair of lancers. "You two come with me. Everyone else return to your positions! Keep alert!"

"What about me, Commandante?" Garcia asked.

Seizing the reins of his white mare and swinging onto her back, Monastario gritted his teeth. "Remain here, Sergeant. If Padre Felipe is not in that cell when I return, you will hang in his place."

Garcia gulped and clutched his neck. "Sí, Commandante."

The capitán glanced over his shoulder at Privates Delgado and Ibarra seated in their saddles. "I want Torres and I want Zorro. Is that clear?" They nodded in understanding. With a wave of his arm, he signaled for them to follow as he pressed his mare forward at full gallop out of the garrison. Rumbling hooves reverberated throughout the pueblo as the trio set out in pursuit.

Leading the lancers in the direction his enemies fled, a sharp neigh caused Monastario to whirl his head around. He glimpsed a black blur emerging from the shadows cloaking the tavern's stable—and it was taking off in the opposite direction. Faint traces of moonlight outlined the shapes of two riders atop a single animal. Monastario pulled his horse to an abrupt halt and reversed course. "After them!"

The hunters followed their prey along the narrow trail that led east from the pueblo. Zorro unexpectedly veered north, crossing open desert, weaving between boulders until he reached El Camino Real. Monastario never let the hunted abscond from sight. He reluctantly admired the fox's magnificent stallion, a beast that ran as fast as the wind. But it was still a horse—and with doubled up riders, it would soon grow tired.

Monastario smirked. Perhaps after hanging Zorro, he would keep the animal for himself.

Only as the pursuit dragged on did he realize they were not gaining on the traitors as expected. In fact, it seemed Zorro put more distance between them. It was impossible! He silently cursed as he pushed his horse to move faster. His career was on the line, he couldn't let the damn masker elude him.

If it wasn't for the furious haze enveloping him, Monastario might have noticed the passenger bounced a little too much in the saddle and swayed a little too much from side to side on turns, but the haze and his ego blinded his better judgment.

Continuing along El Camino Real, on smooth, packed dirt, the capitán hoped to narrow the gap. It suddenly dawned on him where they were headed—the Mission San Gabriel. Torres was going to claim sanctuary again! "Not this time," the capitán muttered.

Giving chase, Monastario's mouth salivated. He could taste victory.

Even if Zorro got away, he would get Torres.

The white church gleamed on the horizon like an angel from the heavens. Monastario laughed at the irony; the padre trusted there would be an especially warm place reserved for the capitán in hell, but the heavens were bestowing the gift of Don Ignacio Torres upon him.

The soldiers slowed their horses as they reached the mission compound. Monastario swung from the saddle and glared at his lancers with annoyance. "Well, what are you waiting for? Dismount."

Delgado and Ibarra exchanged wary glances, nervously studying the darkness, and it was Ibarra who spoke up. "What about the Ghost of the Mad Monk?"

Monastario shuddered. "For the last time, there is no ghost!" he shouted, his voice echoing over the sacred grounds. "Now get off those damn horses!"

The privates complied, seemingly more afraid of the commandante than the ghost. Tethering their mounts to the hitching post, they visibly tensed upon hearing hoof beats coming from the side of the church. Delgado leaned toward Ibarra and whispered, "Do ghosts ride horses?"

"Shut up you fools," Monastario seethed.

A flash of black whooshed past the trio, complete with rustling cape fluttering in the breeze.

"It's Zorro," Delgado gasped. He began climbing in the saddle, but the capitán yanked him down, almost sending the private sprawling to the dirt. Ibarra quickly caught his friend.

"Forget Zorro, he is alone," Monastario commanded. "Torres is more important."

"What about sanctuary?" Ibarra asked.

"To hell with it," Monastario retorted. "I am going to wrench Torres out of that church by his ears." The commandante marched directly to the mission's entrance. Shoving the doors open, they smashed into the walls behind. The earsplitting thud resounded in the sanctuary.

He spotted Torres sitting at a pew in the middle of the room.

"Finally," he whispered. Monastario's blue eyes narrowed; something wasn't right. The traitor was hunched in a rather awkward pose and did not remove his hat; he never even twitched as the doors crashed open, nor did he turn his head as footsteps drew closer.

Heart pounding in his chest, Monastario increased his pace and grabbed Torres by the arm.

The body fell apart in his grasp.

"No," he muttered, "it can't be."

It wasn't Ignacio Torres.

Monastario stared at the fabric still clutched in his hand, pieces of golden straw sticking out from the sleeve. It was a dummy. He tore at it… a dummy constructed from clothes draped over a thin wood frame and stuffed with straw. The hat fell off the head, revealing a bag stuffed with more straw.

Dumbfounded, the commandante slumped onto the pew. His temples throbbed from the rush of blood to his head. Leaning forward, elbows propped on knees, he rubbed shaky hands over his face, trying to calm his shallow breathing. Zorro…

"That bastard!" The oath bounced off the sacred walls. "That bastard!"

Jumping to his feet, he pushed past a terrified Delgado and Ibarra, who appeared frightened God would strike them down at any second, and mounted his white mare. Not waiting for the privates to follow, he raced back to the cuartel.

* * *

><p>Departing the Mission San Gabriel, Zorro met up with Bernardo in a secluded grove off El Camino Real. "Gracias, mi amigo," he took the reins of the chestnut mare from his trusted confidant. "Wait for me at the hacienda. I will fill you in on a new plan." He then journeyed onto the pueblo and approached the alley where he left the haciendado.<p>

"Don Nacho," he whispered, "it's Zorro, you may come out now."

The weary man peered over the crates. Relief washed over his stressed features. Stepping out from behind the protective cover, he tilted his head curiously. "That is my horse."

"Sí," the fox grinned. "Joaquin, your head vaquero, was eager to assist. He is trustworthy?"

"Of course, Joaquin has worked on my rancho since he was a young boy," Nacho replied. "But please, Señor, I do not want involve anyone else in this. I have already caused enough trouble."

"There is no need to worry. He does not know the particulars," Zorro explained, "only that I requested a horse. If confronted, he will not have to lie. We must go. Monastario will not be far behind."

Nacho climbed atop the mare and the two men rode in silence, eventually stopping at a sheltered area on the outskirts of the Torres rancho. Nestled against a small bluff adjacent to a dry stream bed and concealed by brush and boulders, it was a perfect hiding spot.

"This is my land," Nacho observed. "Won't the soldiers search here for me?"

"They have already passed through," Zorro responded. "You will be safe."

He knew it was futile to persuade the haciendado to leave for Monterey while their mutual friend remained in danger. The young man beneath the mask admired his neighbor's open display of courage and compassion. It was only now that he fully appreciated the strong friendship his father and Don Nacho shared over the years.

"There is food and water in your saddlebag, along with an extra blanket to use with the bedroll. There is a quantity of dry sticks over there," Zorro pointed to a nook amid the rocks, "to make a reasonably smokeless fire with. The terrain will keep the flames from being observed by any travelers."

Nacho dismounted, untied the bedroll and checked the nourishment supplied. "I am grateful for all you have done on my behalf, but I will not allow Padre Felipe to die in my place."

"That won't happen," Zorro vowed. "He will soon be free."

The hacendado nodded his understanding and raised a pensive glance to his protector. "If you fail?"

"Then do what you must," the fox replied. "No one can ask more than that. All I request is that you gather whatever provisions you need from your rancho and get to Monterey once the padre is out of harm's way." He cued Tornado to start walking when Nacho called out to him.

"Señor Zorro, I do not know who you are, but gracias."

The masked hero flashed his white teeth, saluted and vanished into the darkness.

* * *

><p>Diego finished caring for Tornado in the cave and navigated the secret passages to the small room adjacent to his quarters. Changing out of the fox's black garments, he dressed in his nightclothes and turned the ring on the wall to open the hidden panel. Entering his bedroom and closing the panel behind him, he found Bernardo sound asleep in a chair.<p>

He chuckled and patted the manservant on the arm. "Bernardo, wake up."

The mute startled and blinked hard. He gazed at Diego and made a flurry of motions with his hands.

"Everything went perfect. I wish I could have seen Monastario's face when he realized his elusive prey was nothing more than a dummy made of straw." A broad smile formed on the don's lips and mischievous sparks twinkled in his hazel eyes. "My experience at the mission did inspire a new plan."

Bernardo raised his eyebrows in a questioning expression.

"The lancers are still fearful of the Ghost of the Mad Monk. Privates Delgado and Ibarra accompanied our commandante and they were as skittish as Sergeant Garcia," Diego elucidated. "It seems rather logical that the ghost would be upset with the capitán's decision to arrest Padre Felipe."

The mute's shoulders rose up and down with silent amusement.

"Yes, Bernardo, the Mad Monk is going to pay a visit to the garrison tomorrow night," Diego laughed, "and he is going to bring along an even scarier friend."

Bernardo's face twisted in confusion and he raised his hands as if asking, 'Who?'

"You," the don answered merrily. "Now, let us get a few hours of sleep. We have much work to do."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Haunting of Los Angeles**

**Chapter Three  
><strong>**"The Headless Horseman Rides"**

The knocking on the door caused the sleeping figure to stir beneath the covers. Heavy eyelids blinked a few times and closed. When the clamor failed to cease, he tried ignoring it by rolling over in bed and burying his head under a pillow. He didn't hear the door open, but did detect muffled footsteps through the feathers and fabric.

"Diego, what are you still doing in bed at this hour? Morning is almost over."

The younger de la Vega pushed the pillow aside and affected his most sheepish expression. "I got caught up in a very good adventure story. It was rather late before I retired," he flashed a crooked grin, "or early, depending on how you look at it."

"It was not long ago when you used to make your own adventures instead of reading about them in books." Alejandro shook his head and smiled. "At least now I do not have to worry as much. Your mother and I shared many a sleepless night fretting over your wild exploits." He sat on the edge of the bed. "But that is not what I came to discuss with you. The entire pueblo is abuzz about last night."

Diego shifted into a seated position, resting against the headboard. "What happened?"

"Don Cornelio tells me Don Nacho learned of Monastario's demands, went to surrender and Zorro intervened during an attempt to free Padre Felipe," Alejandro explained. "At least they think it was Nacho. Some of the merchants overheard the lancers chatting amongst themselves. It seems this mysterious fox played a delightful trick on the capitán."

"What kind of trick?" Diego asked under a mask of innocence.

"Zorro had Monastario chasing a dummy constructed of straw!" Alejandro replied with a belly laugh. "I wish I could have seen the look on the capitán's face when he discovered he was duped."

"That is amusing." The words that so closely mirrored his own triggered a wry smile from Diego. "The capitán must have been furious." He joined in on the laughter, happy to see his father in such jovial spirits. Moments like these, which filled his childhood, were rare since his return from Spain. For a fleeting second, it was as if he never left, never had to deceive the person he loved most in the world in order to protect him.

"The stunt reminds me so much…" the don trailed off, glancing curiously at his son. The emotions swirling in his eyes revealed his thoughts were drifting to memories of the past.

"Reminds you of what?" Diego inquired, attempting to distract his father's reminiscing while struggling to remain unflustered as a knot tightened in his stomach.

"Huh? Oh, it is nothing," Alejandro responded, rejoining the present. "Don Cornelio is in the sala waiting for us. The landowners have called another meeting at the Cortazar rancho to discuss this latest turn of events and the motives of Zorro. We will also determine a course of action in case officials from Santa Barbara do not arrive to override Monastario. I would like for you to be there with me."

"I only just awoke."

"It will not take you long to dress," Alejandro encouraged, patting his son on the knee as he stood. "We can wait a few more minutes. You had some excellent ideas yesterday."

"But I have not eaten breakfast yet," Diego protested in a weak voice. He desperately wanted to accompany his father to make him proud, but the fox had work to do.

"Diego, these are important matters involving our community."

"I know, Father, but I…" he didn't finish.

The older de la Vega turned away, raising a fist to his lips as if fighting an acerbic retort on the tip of his tongue. Bowing his head, the hand fell to his side and his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Disappointment.

A wave of guilt hit Diego like water crashing on the rocky shoreline, causing his chest to tighten. This was the most difficult part of donning the mask of Zorro. Even the close call in the bell tower didn't compare to his father's open displays of disappointment. Diego wondered how long he could bear it, particularly if the days and weeks stretched into months and years. Not even a fortune teller could predict when Monastario's reign would end.

"If you do not want to go, just say so," Alejandro snapped. "We cannot have you missing breakfast."

"It's not that, Father. I have plans to ride into the pueblo this afternoon," Diego defended, needing to alleviate the tension, adding hastily, "Sergeant Garcia allowed me to briefly visit with Padre Felipe yesterday. Perhaps he will allow me the same privilege today."

Alejandro turned and his expression softened. "Please reassure him we are working to secure his release." Not waiting for a response, the don strode out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Diego sighed, kicked the covers off his legs and sat on the edge of the bed. Rising from the mattress and pushing the drapes open to brighten the gloomy mood in the room, his eyes widened when his gaze fell on the clock atop the fireplace mantle. His father wasn't exaggerating. It was after ten o'clock. The morning was nearly over. He sprung to his feet, washed, dressed and went in search of Bernardo.

* * *

><p>"You have been busy today," Diego announced, locating Bernardo in the cave. Assorted varieties of melons, pumpkins and gourds lay in piles. There were enough to make the merchants in the plaza jealous. "Where did you get all of these?"<p>

The mute looked up from among the fruits and flaunted a grin worthy of the fox.

Diego waved a hand. "Forget I asked." He crouched and examined his friend's handiwork arranged on the floor against the wall. "You should not have let me sleep so long."

Bernardo thumped on a melon like a drum to grab the don's attention, placed his hands together and brought them to his cheeks. He briefly closed his eyes and then signaled a halo above his head.

The caballero arched an eyebrow. "I looked like an angel, eh? Capitán Monastario would argue the opposite." He chuckled. "Gracias, mi amigo, I do appreciate it. That is the most I have slept at once since arriving home."

Diego leaned in closer to inspect the faces carved into the hollowed-out pumpkins and melons. Most had simple triangles for the eyes and noses, with different expressions for the mouths. Some were smiling, others were frowning. As Bernardo's skills improved, he managed to include teeth and more intricate carvings for the eyes, giving the impression of eyeballs.

"You have been having fun, haven't you?" he inquired, pointing at a particularly goofy looking face. Diego picked it up for closer inspection. "I like how you used an angled cut on the top, creating a lid." Peering inside, he saw a candle firmly attached to the base. "Have you lit any of these?"

Bernardo shook his head 'no.'

"We should give it a try." Diego reached for a box of matches on the nearby table and illuminated the goofy pumpkin. In the darkness of the cave, even the silly visage glowed with an eerie aura. "This will do quite nicely to scare the lancers, especially with that creepy fellow on the end."

The mute silently laughed.

Surveying the sea of faces, Diego furrowed his brow. "I don't want to ruin your fun, but what are we going to do with all of these? We need only a couple for the plan to work."

Bernardo shrugged.

"And what happened to all of the pulp and seeds you scooped out?"

Tornado neighed as he went after one of the melons.

Diego walked over and rubbed the stallion on the nose. "You like this plan, eh?" The horse nudged him in the chest and the caballero turned to Bernardo. "Just don't let him get too fat." Tornado nudged his master harder and the young man laughed.

"Now, what about the noisemakers? Were you able to find dried gourds?"

Bernardo scurried to a spot next to the table and produced two uniquely shaped gourds with lengths of twine hanging from the ends. He handed one to the don and pulled the string on the other. Loud screeching reverberated throughout the cave. Tornado snickered in annoyance. Diego pulled the string on his. A low-pitched moan resulted.

"These will be perfect," Diego declared. "Whoever thought our escapades in Madrid would prove useful in Los Angeles?" He set the noisemaker on the table. "It is nearing noon and I must get to the pueblo to implement the next stage of our haunting. When I return, we shall assemble a frame to sit on your shoulders that will raise your neckline, eliminating your head."

Bernardo reached out to stop the young man from departing. He made a flurry of motions with his hands, indicating the commandante, lancers and Zorro.

"What will keep Capitán Monastario from deciphering I am behind both ghost attacks?" Diego translated into words. "The tavern will be bustling for lunch. I cannot help if that rascal Zorro eavesdrops on a conversation he is not invited to. He is a bandit, after all." The don winked and patted the mute on the upper arm. "Adiós."

* * *

><p>Lunchtime in the tavern consisted of mouthwatering aromas wafting from the kitchen and boisterous customers sharing tales and playing cards while savoring their meals. Everyone was eager to recount the latest tidbits they learned regarding Capitán Monastario's recent misfortunes at the hands of the mysterious man in black.<p>

It was said the neophytes who fled to the hills called on the Cocopah gods to bring forth the fox, a cunning and wily creature, to bite their enemy. Whispers floated among the superstitious that Señor Torres visited an old witch in the hills. She, in turn, summoned a demon to strike at Torres' adversary.

The more devout parishioners trusted God was punishing the commandante for his abuses, sending an angel in black to terrify him onto the path of the straight and narrow. It was this angel who enlisted the aid of the Ghost of the Mad Monk to save the mission from military occupation.

No matter the absurdity of the gossip, they all delighted in the tricks El Zorro played on the capitán.

Diego, seated at a table in the far corner with a book, grew increasingly anxious as the hour ticked by. The bulk of the crowd filtered out and the din of the sala quieted. Not a single lancer had shown for lunch. As a child, he fondly recalled Sergeant Garcia always hovering about the establishment, enjoying the food and wine—usually at his host's expense.

After the time spent at the mission, the caballero was certain Garcia and the other soldiers would finagle their way to the tavern. He needed at least one, preferably the sergeant, to appear for his plan to work.

Just then, he glimpsed the plump lancer crossing the plaza through the window. The corners of Diego's lips curled up. Garcia entered the posada, hands rubbing his belly and eyes surveying the room.

"Ah, Don Diego, it is good to see you again."

"And under much more pleasant circumstances." The young man set his book on the table. "Please, Sergeant, join me." He motioned to the empty chair across from him and signaled for the barmaid to fetch another bottle of wine and a second glass.

"Gracias, Don Diego, gracias." Garcia wasted no time claiming the seat. "It may be a more pleasant day for you, but not for me." Maria delivered the items. She barely finished filling the new glass with the ruby liquid before he gulped it down.

Diego chuckled. "I take it the capitán is in another of his prickly moods?"

"Prickly does not even begin to describe it. He is still angry over chasing a dummy last night."

"I have heard people taking of it."

"Thankfully, I was not there," Garcia replied. "The commandante left me in charge of the cuartel. Privates Delgado and Ibarra tell me he was cursing up a storm in the church."

"Cursing in a church? That is terrible. It is simply uncalled for," Diego exclaimed with indignation, hiding amusement at Monastario's breakdown.

"Sí," the sergeant agreed. "He has ordered the patrols to search the countryside for Don Nacho. When I got back a few minutes ago for the shift change, the commandante was so furious I was empty handed that he told me to get out of his sight." Garcia sipped his wine and chuckled. "As long as he does not come to the tavern, I will be following orders since he cannot see me."

"Excellent thinking," Diego commended. Monastario's rage was working in his favor. He thought the garrison appeared less guarded this afternoon. If the lancers continued patrols into the night, the risk of snipers on the cuartel's roof would be diminished.

"What brings you to the tavern on such a warm day, Don Diego?"

"Oh, I had to get away from the hacienda," the caballero answered. "This matter with Don Nacho has made my father most disagreeable. It is almost impossible to read when his temper is aroused."

Garcia gazed at the leather bound volume. "What is the book about?"

"It is a collection of short stories I purchased shortly before departing Spain written by an Americano author named Washington Irving. The one I have just finished reading is titled _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_," Diego replied. "He tells of a schoolmaster named Ichabod Crane."

"It sounds very nice," Garcia commented, visibly relaxing that it was evidently not a ghost tale.

"You would get along very well with Ichabod," Diego observed. "He is described as long and skinny, with a tremendous appreciation for food, singing and dancing. Ichabod is invited to a party thrown by a respected member of the town. The parlor is overflowing with platters of delicious cakes and pastries, ham and beef, fruits and vegetables. He makes it a mission to sample each one."

"You are making my mouth water, Don Diego," Garcia said dreamily. "I do not know about being long and skinny, but I do love food, singing and dancing. This Señor Crane is a lucky man!"

"But he is not so lucky, Sergeant."

"He isn't? Why?"

"There is a man named Brom Bones who is jealous of how the señoritas dote on Ichabod, vying for his attention," Diego explained, noting with satisfaction how a few of the tavern's customers leaned closer. "He tells the schoolmaster a story about the ghost of a Hessian whose head was carried away by a cannonball during the war. This Hessian, the headless horseman, haunts the woods outside the town."

"Headless?" Garcia gulped. "He has… no… no head?"

"Well, he does," Diego paused, "it's just that it's not on his neck."

The sergeant's features twisted into terror. "Where… Where is it?"

Diego shrugged. "He carries it on the pommel of his saddle."

The color drained from Garcia's face and he raised a trembling glass to his lips.

"And this head he keeps is not his own."

Julio and Jorge, vaqueros from the Esperon rancho, scooted their chairs over to the de la Vega table. "Whose head is it then?" Julio asked.

"It probably belongs to a resident of the local town," Diego replied.

"How can they not know who it belongs to?" Jorge prodded.

"A cannonball carried the Hessian's head away and it was never found, therefore, he was buried without it. Each night he rises from his grave and searches for his long-lost skull," Diego further detailed. "He lops off the heads of those who cross his path, in hopes that he will one day retrieve his own."

More patrons assembled around the don who recited the ghostly tale.

"This Hessian," Pablo, a farmer, said. "Did he get Señor Crane?"

"No one really knows," the caballero responded. "On the ride home after the party, Ichabod and his old horse, Gunpowder, encountered the Hessian astride a large stallion of powerful frame. During the ensuing chase, the schoolmaster lost his saddle and managed to clasp onto Gunpowder's neck to keep from falling to a certain death. When he cast a look behind, he saw the goblin hurling his head at them! Ichabod tried to dodge the missile, but it struck his cranium with a tremendous crash."

"What happened?" the crowd gasped in unison.

"The next morning, Gunpowder was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly chopping the grass at his master's gate. There was no sign of Ichabod. A body was never discovered. Some say he fled to safer parts; others claim the galloping Hessian carried him off."

Murmurs spread among the crowd, each debating the fate of Señor Crane.

"I do not like this story, Don Diego," Garcia broke his silence. "It's all very macabre. What kind of man writes tales of a headless horseman who lops off heads?"

"I am afraid I cannot answer that, Sergeant," the young don said. "The author, Señor Irving, while an Americano, is living in England. Perhaps he based his writing on legends of the Irish dullahan."

"The dullahan?" the sergeant repeated.

"Sí, the dullahan is an Irish phantom who lost its head, only the folklore is a bit more gruesome," Diego elucidated. "It possesses a whip that is actually a human spine—not braided leather."

Garcia chewed his lip in apprehension. "A human spine?"

"It is rather chilling, isn't it?" Diego observed. "If it wants to claim you, there is no stopping it. Locks open of their own accord; doors, windows and gates cannot impede a dullahan."

"No way to stop it at all?" Jorge interjected.

"Not that I've read," Diego remarked. "Although…"

"Although what?" Garcia eagerly prompted.

"Sailors are a superstitious lot of men and they have never spoken of such creatures." Diego leaned back in the chair and stroked his chin. "Maybe water repels phantoms. If a headless horseman ever rode through Los Angeles, racing to the lake might be a way to survive. Making sure to swim all the way out to the middle, of course."

"The lake," Garcia mumbled. "I will have to remember that."

Diego reached into his jacket and extracted a handkerchief to dab imaginary beads of sweat from his temples—and to hide the grin he was valiantly grappling to suppress. The afternoon was progressing better than he could have ever dreamed. A pang of regret swept through the caballero over using the good-hearted soldier in this manner, but it had to be done. He would make sure to treat Garcia to extra wine in the tavern in gratitude for his role as an unwitting pawn.

"You had better be careful, Sergeant," Pablo teased the sergeant.

"Why is that?" Garcia questioned.

"The padre is in the garrison's jail and will hang at dawn," the farmer replied. "The Ghost of the Mad Monk might come to free him and bring along a friend!" Merry laughter resonated in the establishment. Others were quick to join in the playful banter.

A perfect afternoon indeed, Diego mused, his hazel eyes alit with roguish sparks.

* * *

><p>Under the cover of darkness, a wagon traversed an old trail heading into the Pueblo de Los Angeles, flanked on one side by a shadowy figure on a black horse. They came to a stop at a small abandoned shop on the outskirts of the town. Confident there were no lurkers, Zorro dismounted. He opened the door of the shop and Bernardo guided the wagon inside.<p>

The mute unharnessed the coal-colored draught horse from the vehicle while Zorro fetched the saddle, blanket and bridle from the rear of the wagon. Once Cometa was properly tacked, Bernardo tied a black mask over his eyes and matching bandana over his scalp. The fox helped him secure a lightweight wooden frame on his shoulders that covered his head.

Zorro grabbed a black shirt from the wagon and pulled it over the frame, fastening the buttons. He wrapped a sash higher up on his friend's torso, just below the underarms. Peering at the two holes cut in the front of the fabric, they made eye contact. "Can you see all right, Bernardo?" When the mute waved his hands, he chuckled. "Knock once for 'yes,' twice for 'no.'"

Bernardo knocked once.

"Excelente," the fox noted. "You look absolutely terrifying, Bernardo. Let me get the cape." He tied the cloth at the new neckline, making sure to wrap the ends around the frame to keep it from slipping off. "Are you ready to climb aboard Cometa? He is not fast, but his sheer size, in combination with his ghastly rider, will provide the desired effect."

The mute knocked once again.

After assisting his friend onto Cometa's saddle, Zorro pushed his hat off, letting it hang on his back and pulled a monk's robe over his clothes. Picking up a box of matches, he lit one of the carved pumpkins and handed it to Bernardo.

Stepping back, Zorro admired the menacing headless horseman towering over him. "Not even Washington Irving could picture such a living terror."

The fox tucked chains, the noisemakers, matches and remaining pumpkins into a sack. He opened the door and peered out. The coast was clear. "When you hear the screeching and moaning, you know what to do." Bernardo waved and maneuvered the animal outside. "Good luck, my friend."

* * *

><p>Capitán Monastario exited his office and surveyed the garrison. The crisp night air was a refreshing change from the warm afternoon. Flickering lights from the lanterns cast strange shadows on the buildings, which in turn created long, gangly shapes on the courtyard. He did enjoy the solace of the late nights—until that masked nuisance stole the tranquility from him.<p>

The capitan's eyes narrowed. Lancers were supposed to be marching the length of the cuartel, rifles propped on their shoulders, keeping a vigilant watch for Zorro. Instead, his men, who were expected to be guarding the military stronghold, were hovering around the fat sergeant. Stalking closer, he paused to listen to their conversation.

"He was a Hessian who lost his head in the war," Sergeant Garcia was explaining.

"What's a Hessian?" Ibarra asked.

"It's a… well, it's a man from Hessia, baboso," Garcia admonished. "Just be glad he is not Irish."

Ibarra crinkled his nose. "Why is that, Sergeant?"

"The dullahan uses human spines for whips!" Garcia whispered.

"Carlos over at the livery stable says he rides a giant, fire breathing horse," Delgado said.

"And he hurls his head at his next victim," Ortega added.

"Sí, that is true," Garcia nodded, "and the only chance for survival is to swim to the middle of the lake. Poor Señor Crane did not have a lake to jump into and no one knows what happened to him."

"Some people believe the headless horseman will rise from his grave and ride tonight," Delgado's voice wobbled, "that the Ghost of the Mad Monk will bring him to free Padre Felipe."

"You heard that, too?" Garcia raised trembling hands to his mouth.

Monastario pinched the bridge of his nose. What in the hell were these idiots talking about? Whips made of human spines? Hurling heads? "Atención!" he commanded. The lancers immediately straightened, averting their eyes from their commanding officer. "Sergeant Garcia, remain put. The rest of you get back to your positions."

They did as ordered and Monastario stepped closer to the leader of this grizzly discussion. "What have I told you about ghosts, Sergeant? There are no such things! And now you bring up this foolishness of headless horses?"

Garcia coughed. "Now the horses have no heads?"

Monastario took a deep breath. "I don't know where you get this nonsense from, nor do I care, but it stops right now. I do not want to hear one more word about ghosts, spirits, phantoms, ghouls or specters, whether they have faces or no faces; heads or no heads. Do you understand?"

"Sí, mi Capitán."

"And Hessians are from Germany, not Hessia, you baboso." Prior to the insult even rolling off his tongue, Monastario realized in his haste to flaunt his superior intellect that he might not have been entirely correct. There wasn't a Hessia, was there? Of course not, bumbling Garcia was only guessing…

The gates of the cuartel opened and the patrol rode in for the shift change. The capitán bristled when there was no Don Nacho with them. He also realized the next patrol was not yet ready to leave. "Sergeant, get…" A loud screeching echoed through the night, distracting Monastario.

"What was that?" Garcia gasped.

"It was only the wind," the commandante replied.

"But I did not feel any wind."

There was more screeching—no, more like cackling—followed by a low groan. Monastario glanced around the garrison, curious as to where the noises were emanating from. More groans followed.

"Aieee!" Garcia screamed. "It's the headless horseman!"

The commandante followed the sergeant's gaze out of the gates. His breath caught in his throat. At the far end of the plaza, emerging from the silhouettes of the buildings, was a dark figure riding a giant horse—and the figure did not have a head.

Frozen to his spot, the capitán watched in horror as the creature moved closer, a glowing object in its grasp. It appeared to be a skull—a human skull—eyes, nose and mouth burning with fire.

A shiver ran up Monastario's spine and his heart pounded inside his chest. It was impossible!

More cackling shattered the night air, mixing with the screams of his lancers. The creature galloped forward, raised the head and lobbed it at the cuartel. It landed with crashing splat at Garcia's feet. The sergeant's eyes rolled back in his head and he looked as if he would faint at any second.

Monastario peered back at the plaza and the headless creature was gone.

"It was the headless horseman!" Garcia recovered. "Close the gates; close the gates!"

As the petrified lancers scurried every which way in the garrison, the commandante knelt next to the remains and examined them. His eyes narrowed as he picked at the pieces. It was a pumpkin; a damn pumpkin. Amid the fragments lay a candle.

"Do not close those gates," Monastario commanded, rising to his feet. "It is a trick! It is another of Zorro's tricks! Lancers, mount up and get him!"

The privates reopened the heavy doors and the creature reappeared with a new glowing head. Screams sounded from the lancers as they ran to the barracks. More moans echoed, followed by the clanging of chains. The soldiers came rushing from their quarters, tripping and stumbling over one another in a sea of shouts and shrieks.

"It's the Ghost of the Mad Monk!" Garcia bellowed. "To horse, lancers, to horse. We must get to the lake! It is our only chance!"

"No, you idiots, not the lake," Monastario hollered over the commotion. "Chase Zorro!" He barely managed to avoid being trampled as his men galloped from the stronghold in the direction of the lake, his own white mare fleeing with the troops. "You babosos, you incompetent fools, get back here!"

The cuartel was empty, sans the commandante and his prisoner. Clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turned white, his body shuddered with pure rage. He would kill Zorro. Whether by hanging, shooting or running a sword through the bastard—it did not matter so long as the fox was dead.

Clanking chains drew him from his reverie and Monastario observed the so-called Ghost of the Mad Monk materializing from the barracks. It was his sworn enemy. Zorro tossed the shackles aside, shrugged out of the robe and adjusted his hat.

Drawing his sword, the capitán charged the masked man. Zorro flung his cape over his shoulder and flashed an insolent grin. Steel clashed against steel as the blades met in a furious exchange.

"You will not get away this time," Monastario taunted.

"We shall see about that," the fox replied with arrogant confidence.

The commandante's lunge was blocked, but he quickly recovered. Rapiers conversed in a back and forth of parries and ripostes; Monastario proudly held his ground, not allowing his opponent an advantage. He initiated an attack, the fox countered and their blades glided together as the hilts collided.

Inches from his foe, their swords crossed, Monastario's arm held steady. They both pushed off and resumed their stances. The capitán quickly attacked, forcing his opponent backward. Tasting victory, he aimed for the kill, but Zorro's blade snaked in, ensnaring the commandantes's, twisting his wrist and sending the sword flying from his grasp.

Monastario looked in disbelief at the tip of Zorro's rapier pressed to his chest.

"Now, Commandante, if you will be so kind as to release Padre Felipe."

Cheeks flushing with fury, the officer had no choice but to let the bastard herd him over to the storage room adjacent to the jail. The fox, keeping the sword on the capitán's heart, opened the door and extracted the keys. He tossed them to Monastario.

"Open the cell."

The commandante unlocked the bars and threw the keys across the courtyard. "You will not lock me in my own jail this time," he snickered.

"Who said anything about locking you up?" Zorro quipped. He whistled and the black stallion came roaring into the cuartel. Grinning, he flicked his wrist.

Monastario felt a tickle on his chest. Looking down at his uniform, he saw a 'Z' sliced into the blue fabric. Blood boiling in anger, he started to lunge at the masker. The tip of the blade forced him to take a step back and he tripped on a bucket, falling unceremoniously to the dirt.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Capitán. If you ever make false charges against the good padre again, I will cut a 'Z' right into your forehead." The fox mounted the beast and offered a hand to Padre Felipe, who climbed up behind him.

With another insolent grin, Zorro saluted. "Adiós, Commandante."

Scrambling to his feet, he dove for one of the rifles his men discarded in their haste to leave. Running toward the gate, he raised the weapon to take aim, but the fox was gone. "Damn it!" he shouted. He dropped the rifle and went to retrieve his fallen sword. Feeling the urge to hit or break something, he settled for kicking the bucket.

It was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster!

Monastario needed a drink. Striding to his office, he pushed the door open, letting it slam into the wall—and stopped dead in his tracks. On the middle of his desk sat a hollowed-out pumpkin, complete with golden flames illuminating the 'Z' carved into its flesh.

**The End**

* * *

><p><em>The Legend of Sleepy Hollow<em>, by Washington Irving, was first published in 1820 under the pseudonym Geoffrey Crayon. It was included in a collection of Irving's short stories titled _The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent_. For the sake of this story and to avoid confusion, I used the author's real name.


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